A Secret of the Lebombo Part 33

They set to work to bury the box again. It mattered little enough if here were marks of fresh digging, for who in the world would ever dream of treasure lying buried in this particular cave--one among many-- without some due? Hardly had they done so than the entrance darkened, and Hlabulana stood within. In the excitement of their discovery they had forgotten his very existence. Quickly Fleetwood explained to him what they had found, showing him the bags.

"That is right, U' Joe," said the Zulu, turning them over in his hands.

"There were but four. _Whau_! I like not this dark hole. It savours of _tagati_."

"But you will like all the cattle and new wives your share of this will bring you, son of Musi," said Fleetwood with a laugh. "If it is _tagati_ it is pretty good _tagati_ for us three, this time anyhow.

Well, the sun will soon be down, and I think we had better take a short rest and travel by moonlight. It will be safer."

This was agreed to, and as the red moon raised her great disc above the lone mountain range, flooding forest and valley and rock with her chastened brilliance, two ragged, unkempt white men stepped forth on their return journey, and upon them was wealth surpa.s.sing their highest expectations.

"Hang it all, I can't believe it yet," said Wyvern, for the twentieth time, with the twentieth grip on the bags of gems disposed about his clothing.

"I can hardly believe it myself," rejoined Fleetwood, going through precisely the same performance.

But Hlabulana, the Zulu, said nothing. He only took snuff as calmly as if nothing had happened.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

"IN THE MORNING."

Probably there is no greater fallacy than that youth is quick to cast off impressions; otherwise Lalante with youth in her favour, should, after the first few days from the shock which had smitten her down, have begun to rally, and to realise that there was something left in life after all. But she did not.

The light of life had gone out. Her very youth was against her. She was just at an age when her whole-souled love for this one who had been taken from her, reached a stage of pa.s.sionate adoration that was all absorbing, entrancing her whole being. She lived in it. And now she would see him no more--would see him never again on earth. And yet--all her every day surroundings--every sight, every sound, every locality-- were wrapped up in memories of him. From such there was no escape, nor did she desire that there should be.

Days grew into weeks, but brought no change, no solace, no relief. She strove to throw off at any rate the outward gloom if only for the sake of her two small brothers, but the attempt was little short of a ghastly failure. At this point she became aware of a marked change in her father. He seemed to be failing in health. He had lost the old elasticity, the old alertness, the old keenness in business matters. It could not be that remorse on the subject of Wyvern was behind it. "You sent him to his death," she had said, in the first agony of her desolation. No, she could not think that compunction on that head would weigh very deep with him. Rather would he regard it as matter for congratulation.

To Warren she had taken an unaccountable dislike, consistent with that first instinct of distrust which had come upon her at the time of the dread revelation. His visits had become rather frequent, but as most of their time was spent closeted alone with her father she supposed that their purport was business, and business only. But now she was only coldly civil to him, no longer cordial. The gloom of her horizon was black all round, without sign of a break. Her days could be got through somehow in the ordinary way, but--oh, the agony of her nights, of her awakening from dreams of the blissful past to the cold dead reality of the present and future!

She had not seen Warren's precious accomplice, to hear the news from his own mouth. Warren had never intended she should, and made excuse to the effect that Bully Rawson had been obliged to go up-country again.

She was seated alone one day on the stoep when the bi-weekly post-bag was brought. Listlessly she got the key, and opened it. There might be news of his end--further detail; but even from that she shrank. She opened the bag, and turned out all the correspondence. Most of it was for her father, and obviously of a business nature; there were two or three local papers and--

And then Lalante began to sway unsteadily, and, for all her splendid strength, to feel as if she must sink to the floor. For, at the bottom of the leather bag, lay one more letter, and it was to herself, directed in Wyvern's hand.

With trembling fingers she tore it open. Why--what was this? It was headed "Pietermaritzburg, Natal," and bore a date just seven days old.

What did it mean? What could it mean? It was weeks since Warren had brought her the news of his sad and violent death, and yet here were lines penned by his own hand but seven days ago. Had anybody been playing some cruel practical joke upon her? No. Surely n.o.body living would be capable of such barbarity; and then, here was his own handwriting--clear, strong, unmistakable--looking her in the face.

With a mist before her eyes Lalante managed to decipher its purport, which was briefly this. The writer had returned from his undertaking, and had returned successful--successful beyond his wildest hopes--this was emphasised--and would follow on upon the letter at the very earliest opportunity, not more than a couple of days later at the outside, he hoped. And then, there were lines and lines of sweet love-words, sweeter perhaps, certainly sweeter to her after weeks of supposed bereavement than any he had ever before penned.

Again and again she read through the missive, examined the postmarks-- everything. No, there was no deception here--and in a couple of days he would be with her once more. She must be patient, but--ah! how could she be? It was as though that one had risen from the dead.

She sank into a low chair, a smile of ineffable happiness irradiating her face. All the past was merely a dream, a nightmare--but--was she not only dreaming now?

"Lalante, child, what's the matter?"

It was her father's voice--strained, tremulous. Seeing her like this but one conclusion forced itself upon him--that her mind had given way at last.

"The matter is that the news we heard wasn't true. _He_ will be here in a couple of days," showing the letter.

"Oh, thank G.o.d for that," said Le Sage fervently--and he was anything but what is called a pious man.

"What if he is coming back as he went, father?" said Lalante, who could not forbear a spice of retaliatory mischief in her hour of restored happiness.

"Oh, I don't care--so he comes back; no I don't--not a d.a.m.n. I can't see my little girl looking as the has looked all this infernal time.

And yet--" He broke off suddenly.

"Well he isn't. He says he's been successful beyond his wildest hopes."

"Oh thank the Lord again," said Le Sage, in a curiously constrained voice. "Does he give particulars?"

"No. Bother particulars. The great thing is he's coming at all--isn't it?"

"Oh of course. That's how women look at things. They don't know any better--how should they!"

"Well why should they?" retorted Lalante with a happy laugh. "Now look here, old man, you'll be civil to him won't you?"

"Oh yes, I'll be glad to see him. Will that do for you? Oh it's a devilish queer world when all's said and done--a devilish queer world,"

and the speaker turned away abruptly to bury himself in his own den.

But the girl thought to detect a shade of relief in his tone, even in his look--as though something had occurred to clear up the despondency which, of late, had settled upon him.

The morning rose bright and beautiful--the morning after the receipt of the letter. Lalante was up while it was yet dark, and it may have been twenty or it may have been thirty times an hour that her quick, eager gaze was turned upon the point where the road came over the ridge. A light mist which had gathered during the night cleared away early, leaving a sparkle of myriad dew-drops upon every bush frond as the sun rose higher in the blue and cloudless sky. But in the open the c.o.c.k-koorhaans were crowing and squawking tumultuously, and varying bird voices piped or twittered in the cooler shade. It was a heavenly morning, a morning for life and love.

"Two days at the outside," he had said. But what if at the inside it should be one? That would mean to-day--thought Lalante; hence the eager scanning of the furthest point of road. Suddenly she started.

Something was moving at that point, approaching, and her strong, practised sight took not a moment to decide that it was a mounted figure. Pressing a hand to her heart to curb its tumultuous beatings she tore down the field-gla.s.ses from where they hung. One glance was enough, and in a second she was hurrying down, by a shorter way, to where the road dipped into the kloof prior to reascending. Meanwhile the advancing horseman had disappeared amid the intervening bush.

Barring the road the girl was standing, her tall, beautiful figure framed in the profusion of foliage, her face irradiated with the light of love, her lips slightly parted into a most tender smile as she waited. Such was the vision that burst upon Wyvern, as with a hurried exclamation he flung himself from the saddle rather than dismounted. In the long, close embrace that followed neither seemed able to find words.

"You knew you would find me here," said the girl at last. "But I--up till yesterday I never thought to see you again on earth."

Wyvern started.

"Have I been so very remiss, then, sweetheart? I a.s.sure you that until a week ago, I have had no opportunity whatever of communicating with you, or any one else down here."

"It isn't that. They told me you had been killed."

"What? Who told you?"

Briefly she gave him an outline of Warren's narrative. He listened intently.

"Well, it came within an ace of being true news," he said at last. "I have a great deal to tell you, dearest, but at present we will only think of ourselves. My luck has turned as you always predicted it would. We need never be parted again."

"Life of mine, and until yesterday I thought we were for ever," she exclaimed pa.s.sionately. "Oh but no--it seems impossible. You--to whom I have always looked up, as to something more than human--human yet superhuman--whose every word even on the lightest matter, was higher than a law--you, to be with me always guiding my life, making it every moment too good to live! No, it can't be. Such happiness can never fall to one poor mortal!"