Claverton started as if he had been shot, and the room seemed to go round with him. “Miss Strange!” She was not this man’s wife, then, or anybody’s. He hardly heard what was said after that; though outwardly cool and collected. Then the revulsion of feeling was succeeded by a relapse almost as overwhelming as the first. For was it likely, he argued, that she would listen to him now, any more than that morning three years and a half ago—when for the second time she refused his love? And his reason answered, No. Still it was a weight lifted, the discovery that she was not married to his host, as he had at first thought. He had never seen Payne’s wife, nor had that genial-hearted soul ever touched upon the subject of his spouse in such way as to enable him to form any idea of her personal appearance. Nor had Payne mentioned the fact of there being a guest in his house. And then Lilian’s own words—“I thought that I should never see you again—I thought that you were dead,” spoken as if in explanation of her own circumstances. No wonder he had jumped to that conclusion. Well, it did not matter either way, he told himself. He would importune her no more—he could follow the only course open to him—he would go. She might tolerate his presence just this one evening, and on the morrow he could depart before any of the household were astir, even as he had done once before.
It may be wondered what Payne had been about all this time, after unconsciously leaving these two together. On going to the back of the house, the first sight that met his gaze was a troop of young cattle plunging over a fence and careering madly about one of his cultivated strips destined to become a model kitchen garden. To dash off then and there, and eject the intruders before damage, widespread and sore, was done, became at once the object of his life, and forgetting for the moment the very existence of his guest—or, indeed, of anybody—away he started; but the work of reparation was also one of time, and not until all possibility of a recurrence of the damage had been practically guarded against, did he so much as begin to think of returning to the house.
Fortunately the darkness of the room, as the shades of evening deepened, kept Payne from noticing Lilian’s deathly paleness, and he chatted on in high good-humour, till the sound of voices and laughter in the passage proclaimed the advent of his wife and olive-branches—the latter, Lilian’s charges; for she was still plying that delightfully remunerative and much appreciated craft—teaching the young idea.
“Well, Lilian,” cried Mrs Payne, a bright, cheery little woman of about her own age, or perhaps a year or two older. “You’d much better have come out with me instead of moping indoors, on this lovely afternoon, over that wretched music. Why, who’s this?” Then a due introduction having been effected, she shook hands cordially with the new arrival. “Ah, Mr Claverton, I’m so glad to see you. I’m always at that dear, stupid old George for not bringing you here, after saving his life that time; but I’m so glad you’ve found us out at last.”
“That dear, stupid old George,” the while, was winking at Claverton over his spouse’s shoulder, his satirical nature hugely tickled by the flutter which the news of the other’s opportune aid a second time rendered would cast her into. He would tell her some day, but not just yet.
Claverton laughed. “Well, you see, Mrs Payne, he could hardly have done that, because I was bound in the opposite direction, but I’ve taken advantage of my opportunity as soon as I fell in with it, and here I am.”
“What! Do you mean to say you’ve been wandering about up the country ever since?”
“Of course he has,” struck in Payne. “But hadn’t we better get all snug for the evening? It’s about feeding-time! Here, Claverton, come this way, I dare say you’ll like to put your head into cold water. And, Annie, just tell those kids to shut up that infernal clatter,” he added, as the uproar of juvenile romping, mingled with many a shrill laugh, came rather too distinctly from an inner room.
And how comes it that Lilian Strange, whom we last saw at Seringa Vale, should be quietly installed in this Kaffrarian border dwelling? It will be necessary to glance back.
Not long after we saw her, hopeless and heartbroken, more than three years back, an event happened which caused her to forget for a time her own grief in the sore affliction of others, of her dearest and truest friends. One day Mr Brathwaite started for his accustomed ride round the farm, but the afternoon slipped by and then evening came, and he did not return. His horse, however, did; for just as Mrs Brathwaite, in anxiety and alarm, was about to send forth in search of him, that quadruped put in an appearance, with the rein still on its neck, and limping up to the stable-door as if it had been injured. Then they started in search, leaving Mrs Brathwaite a prey to the most terrible forebodings, which were realised only too soon. The old settler was found lying in the veldt, unable to move. His horse, he said, had put its foot in a hole, stumbled and rolled over with him, falling upon him; no bones were broken, but he feared he had received some internal injury as he could not move without great pain. Carefully they carried him home, and he was put to bed. Tenderly did his wife and Lilian watch beside him the night through, while Hicks was riding at a hand-gallop to fetch a doctor from the district town. An errand, alas, which was only too futile; for as the clear dawn quivered glowing and chill over the homestead at Seringa Vale the sufferer’s spirit passed slowly away, and the beams of the rising sun, darting in at the window, lighted upon the face of a corpse and two watchers weeping by a bedside.