“Did I not say that the white man was a wizard? Who laughs now? Where is he? Where is the man who jumped from yon height?”
He might well ask. For of the fugitive, alive or dead, there was absolutely no trace. Had his body stuck in one of the trees, or rested on a ledge? No. Those above could see every projection in the rock, and the trees were free from any such burden. And around the spot where the horse lay and on to which it had fallen straight, there was no sign or shadow of a footmark to show whither the human performer of that fearful leap had betaken himself, even if he had reached the ground alive—which was impossible. He had melted into air, and it was nearly evening; to continue the search would be useless.
Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.
The Darkest Hour.
When Lilian saw Payne return to the house alone, unaccompanied by her lover, it seemed that her cup of bitterness was full to the brim.
He had taken her at her word, then, even as she had besought him to do, and had left her, wearied of her weakness and vacillation; had left her in bitter anger that she should have made a plaything of his love, taking it up and casting it from her again as the humour seized her. Yes; it must be so, she told herself; and yet, if he only knew! But he never would know. Her martyrdom was complete. Not even would she have the consolation of knowing that if they parted in sorrow, at any rate they parted in love, as was the case that former time. No; this time anger and contempt for a weak creature who did not know her own mind would soon take the place of his former love—and then? Ah, what did it matter? She had sacrificed herself, and the sacrifice was complete; what mattered a mere triviality of detail? He was gone, and she would see his face no more, and she—she had saved him and ought to be only too glad that the opportunity of doing so had been allowed her—at least, so she told herself.
So she told herself, but ah! she could not feel glad. Her plan had succeeded, as she had been hoping, yet not daring to pray, that it would; but now that it had, she discovered that side by side with her heroic resolution had lurked a subtle hope that even yet she might look upon him again. That hope was now fulfilled, and lo! all was darker than it had been hitherto—so dark that it could never be light again.
Could it not? Even then, breaking in upon the outer gloom of her terrible despair, came her lover’s last message—“A very few days will see me back here again. Everything will come right then”—bringing a gleam of hope to her crushed heart. He would come back—at any rate he would come back—and then, those confident words: “Everything will come right then.” For the first time a strong doubt came over her as to the truth of Truscott’s allegations. It might be that he was lying, according to his wont—lying in order to gain some private end, to revenge himself upon her—for she now no longer believed that he really loved her. Yet he had spoken so confidently, with such an exhaustive reliance in his facts. Still there might be some mystery about it, which her lover was able to solve. Ah! why had she not asked him when he was here just now? Why had she not begged him to clear up this horrid doubt; to tell her openly about his past life? She had been unnerved: had lost her head for the time being. Still it is probable that she would have asked him, but for the inopportune return of the Paynes. Well, it was too late now; she must wait patiently for his return, and then—if only the opportunity was allowed her—a lifetime of tenderness and devotion could hardly atone for this dreadful doubt.