The Fire Trumpet: A Romance of the Cape Frontier

  VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

  FORTH--A WANDERER.

  After that last heart-breaking farewell, Claverton tried to walk quicklyaway, but in vain. Several times he paused to listen. Once he turnedand retraced his steps a few yards, feeling sure he had heard his namecalled. But no. It was only the rustle of the leaves as a birdfluttered among them, or the murmur of a tiny whirlwind which now andagain whisked round a few leaves and bits of stick in the stillness ofthe summer morning. On, on he strode, whither he knew not nor cared,his lips drawn tight over his set teeth, a tumult of desperate thoughtsraging wildly in his breast, a glare almost of mania in his eyes,dragging his steps heavily as one who staggered beneath a load. Thisdream which he had been cherishing, this sweet hope which had made a newman of him, was dashed from his grasp, and so cruelly, so mercilessly.Ah, good God! how he had loved her--how he did love her! He had neverloved any living thing before, and now the long-pent-up torrent hadburst its barrier and overwhelmed him; and he tried to look into theblack, bitter future till his brain reeled and all was confusion again--wild, surging, chaotic thoughts--as he strode on through the shadelessglare of the burning _veldt_. Shade or bud, what was it to him? Buthuman endurance has its limits. Even his iron frame, weakened by themental strain, began to fail after hours of tramping beneath that fiercesun, and he sank to the ground nearly exhausted at the foot of a smallmimosa-tree. He was desperately hard hit, if ever man was.

  "Why, Arthur! What on earth brings you here? I thought you were awayat Driscoll's!" said a voice behind him.

  In his preoccupation he had not heard the tramp of a horse's hoofs.Turning quickly, he saw Mr Brathwaite.

  "Oh, I didn't go there after all--and I've been taking a little stroll,"he answered, with a ghastly attempt at a laugh, and in a voice so harshand strange that the old man, looking at him, began to think he had hada sunstroke, and was a little off his head.

  "Anything the matter?" he asked, kindly. "You don't look at all thething. Have you heard any bad news?"

  Ah, that was a good idea! Claverton remembered that the post had comein that morning, bringing him two or three letters, which he had thrustunopened into his pocket. This would cover his retreat. He would beable to leave without any awkward explanations--called away suddenly.They would think he had heard of the death of some relative; and grimlyhe thought to himself how the death of a hecatomb of relatives would bemere gossip compared with the "news" he really had heard.

  "Yes," he replied, "that's what it is; and I am afraid I must leave hereas soon as possible."

  "H'm! But where's your horse?"

  "My horse? Oh, I walked."

  "H'm," said the old man again. "Now look here, Arthur, my boy, I've gotthrough a pretty long spell of life, during which I've learnt the art ofputting two and two together. Whatever you may have heard to upset you,didn't come through the post. Now I don't want to pry into youraffairs, but I can see tolerably well now how things have gone. Is itso bad as you think?"

  There was a world of delicate, kindly-hearted sympathy in the other'svoice, and Claverton felt as if it did him good. Grasping the handextended to him, he replied:

  "It is. I will not try to convince you that you have got upon the wrongtack, even if it would not be useless to do so. I must go from here;you will understand, you will appreciate my reasons, and know why thisplace, which has been a dear home to me, the only real home I have everknown, has become unendurable now, at any rate for a time."

  His voice failed him, and he broke down. Recovering himself with aneffort, he went on:

  "I know it seems abominably hard-hearted, ungrateful even, suddenly toleave the best and kindest friends I have, in this way, to say nothingof the possible inconvenience to you. Yet I am going to trespass evenmore upon your large-heartedness. I am going to ask you to help me toleave quietly, not to make it known that I have done so until after I amgone, and even then to let it be supposed that something I heard throughthe post has compelled my departure. Is this too much? I do not ask itso much for my own sake, as for--for another's."

  Mr Brathwaite mused a moment.

  "You're sure you're right about this, Arthur?" he said. "Well, Isuppose you are; you're hardly the sort of fellow to do a thing byhalves. Now listen: if things are as bad as you say, I think your planis a good one. Go away for a change, and do some travel or up-countryhunting. You're naturally a restless man, and a little excitement andchange may do you a world of good now. As to any inconvenience to me,that's nothing. We are not very busy just now, and though we shall allmiss you terribly, Hicks and I will manage to rub along somehow. AndI'll do what you want about getting off. When do you want to leave?"

  "To-night, or to-morrow morning, rather. There's a good moon now,nearly at half."

  "All right; but look here, my boy. Don't remain away from us a minutelonger than you feel inclined; and whatever happens, or wherever you maybe, remember that my door is always open to you, all you have to do isto walk in and make your home with us, as long as we are above ground ifyou feel inclined. Now we'd better be going. You are looking very ill;get on my horse, I'll walk a bit."

  But this the other firmly refused to do. "I feel much better now," hesaid, "I'll walk alongside."

  They were not very far from home, for Claverton's wandering had been ofa somewhat tortuous nature, so that he had got over a great deal ofground without covering much of actual distance. So they started upontheir way back, and for the time he felt calmed by the other's strong,manly sympathy; but it was the calm of exhaustion rather than that ofrelief.

  Assuredly there were disturbing elements underlying the surface of thehousehold at Seringa Vale, or, at any rate, of its younger members. Yetthat evening, when they met, there was little or no sign of anything ofthe kind. Claverton looked rather worn and haggard, but notconspicuously so, and though quieter than usual, this was accounted forby one or two hints that Mr Brathwaite had let drop in accordance withthe plan the two had agreed upon. Hicks, however, counterbalanced thisby being uproariously lively on his own account. He had had a rare oldtime of it in the _veldt_ that afternoon, having brought back a wildguinea-fowl, three partridges, and a red koorhaan slung to his saddle,the spoils of his bow and spear. "Not bad, you know," as he said. "Tosay nothing of that other guinea-fowl and another partridge, too, that Iought to have got."

  "Why didn't you get them, then?" asked Mr Brathwaite.

  "Oh, I dropped them all right, but the grass was so long and they gotaway somehow," at which reply the old man laughed meaningly, andremarked that Hicks was becoming such a crack shot that he felt himselfbound to leave something for another time.

  "By the way, where's Lilian?" went on Mr Brathwaite, forgetting.

  "She isn't very well to-night," replied his wife. "Poor child, I toldher it was too hot to sit out this morning, and she stayed out too long.It's only a headache, she says, that will be all right to-morrow. Imade her go to bed early and sent her some tea in her room."

  "Well, yes, it has been rather warm to-day," rejoined Mr Brathwaite."She ought to be more careful."

  "--And then I heard no end of a cackling on the opposite bank,"continued Hicks, who was narrating how he had circumvented his quarry,"and I crawled along from bush to bush, and came bang into the middle ofa lot of guinea-fowl. The ground was black with them--by George itwas--perfectly black. Well, the beggars wouldn't rise; they keptlegging it along till I thought I should never get a shot."

  "Well, but don't you know what you should have done then?" said MrBrathwaite.

  "What?"

  "Why, shot one on the ground. They'd have got up then."

  So the evening wore on, and Claverton thought it would never end. Wasit a subtle instinct that this would be their last meeting, he wondered,that made Ethel persist in talking to him the whole evening, while Lauraand Gertie Wray were singing duets together, with Hicks in attendanceturning over, usually at the wrong place, by the way, for which he wasrewarded b
y a half-angry, half-amused glance from Gertie's big blueeyes? Somehow or other, things reminded him of that earlier timethere--before this turning-point in his by no means uneventful life--buthe remembered it only as a far-away recollection. Then at lastgood-night was said all round, and he found himself alone, though notyet, for Mr Brathwaite followed him to his room just to say a moreformal good-bye.

  "So you haven't changed your mind about going, Arthur? Well, I didn'tmuch think you would, and perhaps it's best, for a time. You've gotyour horse I see, and we can send on anything you may want after you.The women will be sorry when they find you've gone. I'll only say whatI did this afternoon--come back when, and as soon as you like, thesooner the better. Good-bye, now, my boy. Don't take things too muchto heart, all comes right in time, as you'll see when you get to myage."

  Claverton wrung his hand in silence, then the door closed on the figureof the old man. Would he ever see that kindly face and genial presenceagain?

  He went round to the stable to see that his horse was all ready for himin the morning. Yes, there stood the fine chestnut, and it snorted andthen whinnied as it recognised its master by the dim light of thestable-lantern. He cut up a bundle of forage and threw it into themanger.

  "Ah, Fleck!" he said, as he stood watching the horse eat it. "You and Ihave had many a good time of it together, and now we'll have many a badtime, but we'll never part, old horse. That glossy skin of yours, which_her_ hand used to stroke half timidly and _her_ eyes used to look uponand admire, shall never belong to any one but me, go we north, south,east, or west."

  He patted the shining neck, and passed his hand down each of the smoothforelegs, and the horse, making one or two playful bites at hisshoulder, whinnied again. Then he extinguished the lantern and went outof the stable.

  "No use trying to go to sleep. I'll take a walk."

  So saying he strolled away down into the kloof. The moon, nearly athalf, was shining above, silvery and clear. Not a breath stirred thesleeping foliage, and, except that now and again something would rustlein the grass or bushes, the stillness was oppressive. He skirted thedam, whose dark glassy surface twinkled with the reflected stars, andpassing through the gap in the quince hedge, stood under the oldpear-tree, and the network of light beneath its moon-pierced shade wasthere still, but paler than that of the golden sun. A gleam ofsomething lying on the ground caught his eye. He picked it up. It wasa ring--two ropes of twisted gold welded together. Moved by the sameinstinct that chilled him the last time he held this trinket in hishand, he dropped it as if it had been some live thing. Then he changedhis mind, and, picking it up again, slipped it into his pocket,intending to restore it to its owner, somehow. But the finding of itcreated a sudden revulsion of feeling--fierce resentment drove out thesad, heart-breaking thoughts with which he had come to that spot--anddark, murderous projects crowded upon his raging soul. Why could he notfind out the original owner of that bauble, and remove him from hispath? The end would more than justify the means. He had shot a manbefore to-night, merely to save his own life; and the stake to be wonhere was far more than his own life. He would keep the ring, it mightbe turned to account. Thus ruminating he passed through thewicket-gate, and on along the path towards the rocky pool. Here waswhere Lilian had started in alarm at the cry of the jackal that firstevening; and then how happily they had conversed, wending their way downthis path--but, be it remembered, with Death stalking the while unknownto them upon their footsteps.

  At last he returned to the house, and re-entering his room threw himselfupon his couch, sinking, from sheer exhaustion, into a troubled sleep.And the Southern Cross turned in the heavens, and the moon sank lower,and the world slumbered; but, at length, that worn-out brain was awakeagain.

  Claverton rose, plunged his head into cold water, dressed himself fortravelling, and within half an hour of awaking had saddled-up Fleck, andnothing remained but to start. Stay--something did remain. Where washis riding-crop? Then he remembered that he had left it in thedining-room. It had slipped down behind the sideboard, and somethinghad diverted his attention at the time so that he had forgotten to pickit up. Noiselessly he turned the handle of the door and let himselfinto the dark passage; then into the dining-room, fearing lest the treadof his riding-boots or the creak of the floor should disturb the house;but no--all was still. He found the missing article just where he hadleft it; quietly he regained the passage again, in another instant hewould be gone, when--What was that?

  For the dining-room door, which he had just come through, was softlyopened, and a figure stood at the end of the passage--a female figure--wrapped in a dressing-gown. Heavens! how his heart leaped! Had sheyielded? Was this indeed her, come to cancel his departure? Histhoughts were running so entirely upon her, or he would have seen thatthe figure before him was not tall enough for that of Lilian. But heturned towards it transfixed.

  "Arthur," whispered a voice, dispelling the illusion at once. "Arthur.You are going away--for good; I know you are."

  "Ethel! Good Heavens, child! What are you doing here?" he exclaimed inblank astonishment.

  "You are going away," she answered. "I guessed it last night. I couldfeel it, somehow. And you were going to leave us all without sayinggood-bye--to leave us without a word," she went on in tones ofsuppressed excitement.

  "Ethel, for goodness' sake go back to your room at once," said Clavertongently, yet firmly. "You don't know what you are doing. Only think, ifany one were to hear you and to come out now."

  To do him justice, he was anxious far more for her than for himself inthe exceedingly awkward position in which her impulsiveness was indanger of placing them both.

  "Oh, I don't know what I am doing?" repeated the girl, bitterly, andstifling down a sob. "And you are very anxious to see the last of me;but remember this, Arthur. At any rate, I did not let you go withoutwishing you good-bye, however imprudent I may have been in doing so."

  "Ethel, believe me, I was thinking entirely for you. You never wouldthink for yourself, you know," he parenthesised, with a sad smile. "Ican't tell you how I appreciate your doing this; but I have too muchregard for you to allow you to remain a moment longer. Now do go backto your room, if it is the last thing I ever ask you."

  For a moment the girl made no reply. A flood of moonlight streamed inat the open door, playing with her golden hair, which fell in waves uponher shoulders as she stood with her hands clasped before her.

  "Good-bye, Arthur. And remember, I was the only one here who saw thevery last of you," she added in a tone of strange triumph, lifting hereyes suddenly to his. Was it that he had seen that look before in othereyes, and, recognising it, desired to save her from herself? Was itthat in his mind was seared that last vow, uttered that morning andwrung from a breaking heart? Who may tell? He pressed both her littlehands in his own, and, without again looking at her, passed through thedoorway and was gone.

  The red half-moon glowered in the sky, with its points turned angrilyupwards, and a cloud-cap stole over the distant mountains one by one,spreading, creeping over the face of the land, and day broke. And inthe cold grey dawn the wanderer rode on--on in the misty drizzle whichswept through the dark spekboem sprays and made the big stones on thehillside, far and near, gleam like lumps of ice. Rain or shine, warmthor chill, it was nothing to him. Down the bush path, smooth or rugged;winding along a kloof; through a river; neither looking to the right norto the left he held on his way, on, on--ever on.