George Brain, Esqr.,
Mining Hotel,
Beaconsfield,
Diamond Fields.
(Barkly West.)
Then as if it were the most natural thing in the world to open other people’s letters, she slipped her fingers under the flap of the envelope, pulled it off and threw it away. Unfolding the letter, she read it from beginning to end.
“Onder-koppies” near Buluwayo.
October 20th, 19—.
Dear George,
As soon as you get this, raise 500 pounds on the nail, and wire it up. I know money is tight, but get that pony from somewhere and your pile is made. Hunt and I have struck it rich. As a farming partner Hunt is no more good than a dead dog, but he knows the surveying and mineralogy business like his A.B.C. On the Rand, they used to call him the fellow with a nose for reef, and only he’s lazy as the devil he’d be rich as Hades by now. Anyway prowling round here he has nosed out a plum... the land adjoining ours is lousy with gold. Unfortunately the whole 6000 acres belong to de Windt—you know—the hunter and explorer fellow, who got this farm for his share in the Matabeleland row. However he’s never done anything with it except stick up a hut, and it’s common knowledge here that he’ll take what he can get for his land, for since the railway is on its way he professes himself sick of this country and is going to make tracks further north. He’s got no money, never has, and will jump at 500 pounds ready cash, so hustle and raise it George, and we’ll keep the loot in the family. Hunt and I haven’t a rap between us, and no means of getting any except by selling our land, which would look fishy to de Windt who is no fool. You can trust me there’s no mistake. Hunt is too wise a bird for that. But if you’ve any doubts, come up yourself and bring the best surveyor on the Fields. You’ll find that everything is O.K. Only it must be done sharp,—for de Windt will be up here on his way North about end November. Get busy. Zachabona!
Brother Frank.
“Charming fellow, brother Frank!” said Miss Carlton thoughtfully, and having no pocket, thrust the letter into the front of her silk shirt. Afterwards she sat shuffling the rags of paper and canvas with the toe of her shoe, wondering how they had come to this place. The conclusion was that the bag must have been dropped from the down-country coach, though clearly not at this spot, for there was no road. Probably some hungry animal had carried it off and torn it open to see what it contained. Possibly the coach road was not far off, and by continuing ahead she would find it. But she felt a curious indifference on the subject. The heat had filled her with a delightful drowsiness, and she decided to rest a little longer. With her back against a tree she stared dreamily at the lovely slope of country over which the sunshine appeared to be passing in ripples making the long pale grass sway in waves, though not a breath of wind stirred the air. Everything seemed wrapped in a pleasant golden haze, but whether the haze was in her mind or on the golden silent land about her she could not have told. At last her eyes gradually closed and she slept.
When she awoke the plain was still simmering under the sun waves, and leaves and grass crackled and stirred as before in the windless air. All was unchanged, except that at the top of the slope half a quarter of a mile away, a dozen or more buck were peacefully grazing among the pale long grass. Often from the coach Vivienne had seen such herds, and she knew the great dark creatures, with patches of white gleaming under them as they moved, to be sable antelope. Lazily she sat watching their slow graceful movements, as they fed, never dreaming of the presence of a human being, though sometimes one or another of them would raise its head and for a moment seem to listen.
Then in an instant with the flash and crack of sudden doom the scene changed. The antelope terror-stricken, were bounding across country and the girl leaping to her feet stood with eyes dilated and hand on heart. A gun had been fired and the dark body of one of the buck lay shuddering where a moment before it had been happily grazing.
Even as she stood staring, the figure of a man came from behind a far group of bush into the open—a tall hulking figure, in sloppy trousers belted at the waist, his gun over his shoulder. He was a long way off, but he walked straight as a die for the spot where the buck lay, stooped over it for a minute, then wiped something he held in his hand on the grass and stuck it back into his belt. Afterwards he tied a little strip of white rag onto a bush close by. He stood for a while looking after the rest of the herd, now black dots in the distance, then leisurely started to walk back in the direction he came. Never once had he looked towards where Vivienne, motionless as a statue stood in the shadow of the trees.
As she watched him, his figure momentarily disappeared behind a bush, and then for the first time immobility passed from her face and figure. Panic swept over her like a wave. Uttering short sharp cries, she began to run after the man, and, as she ran, the remembrance came over her like the memory of some frightful nightmare how she had run like this before—on and on and on—over rocks, through bush, in blinding sunshine and heavy darkness. And with the remembrance came such terror as lent wings to her feet—terror of losing sight of this human creature, and being left once more to the awful loneliness of the veld.
In a few moments she caught up to within thirty yards of the man, but long before that he had turned round and was watching her, his hat pushed back above his dark coarse face, his eyes full of astonishment.