An I.D.B. in South Africa Part 2

"The person you inquire about is in the city, and has learned--I know not how--that you are in South Africa, and is determined to hunt you down."

Striking a match, he set fire to the letter, and watched it slowly burn, and crisply curl in his fingers. He then threw it on the floor, and crushed it with his foot, with the unspoken wish that this act could blot out its menace from his memory.

Growing calmer he arose, and pa.s.sing his hand over his face as if putting on a mask, went out of the room to join his wife at dinner.

The dinner was served by a black dwarf named Bela, who in his fantastic proportions resembled a heathen idol in bronze.

After they had eaten sometime in silence, Dainty asked.

"Are you going out this evening?"

"I must go to the club, but I will return early."

"I am often lonely, Donald, when I am left with only my thoughts for company," said Dainty, somewhat mournfully.

"You must be lonely sometimes," replied Donald. "Let us try a small diversion. Why not invite in a few friends for an evening? Make out your list, and send the invitations to-morrow. Don't get the blues while I am away," and kissing her, he hurried into the street.

CHAPTER FIVE.

IMPRESSIONS.

There are women who have no power of attraction until you meet them in their homes, surrounded by evidences of an individuality which belies your first impression. Then for the first time you discover new traits of character, and evidences of thought that fascinate and hold you; then for the first time they surprise and delight you with their real selves.

Again, there are those who shine abroad, but darken their homes. In the chilling atmosphere surrounding them, no life can expand. These women are dwarfed souls. Affecting the semblance, they know not the real.

The lifeless imitation of their surroundings betrays them, and chills the sensibilities of their guests.

The wife of Donald Laure, was a woman whose surroundings seemed a part of herself--a bright, light creature, glorifying the materialities about her with a certain radiance, and none could enter her home without feeling the charm that pervaded it. With her warm heart and generous impulses she seemed born but to make beholders happy.

She was, as yet, unconscious of the powers that lay dormant in her; under her childlike exterior was a soul of which even her husband knew nothing. All her knowledge of the world was like the knowledge of a maiden, far from its busy actualities.

She mused upon its wonders as they were presented to her mind by her husband, but he would have been amazed at the panorama of her thoughts.

Greater amazement would have been his, had he known the strange truth of which she herself was entirely oblivious, that the great pulsating power of Love had not yet inspired her. To be loved, caressed, cared for, had so far made her content. But, born of the English soldier and the daughter of a savage warrior, there slumbered in her soul a possibility of pa.s.sion that needed only to be roused to burst into flame.

The life of excitement that society offers, brings little contentment to a woman with Dainty's nature. She only beats the bars raised by its cold, formal laws, and sufficient unto herself, living a life within that soothes, she becomes a fascinating siren to the energetic nineteenth century man, who comes with his beliefs in materialism, and his doubts of any goodness that he cannot prove.

Such a woman is to him a creature to be tested by his methods, and broken on the wheels of his unfeeling Juggernaut of selfishness and animalism.

Being a delightfully untutored, trusting soul, she is not looking for this monster evil--self, that he has raised up and worships. At first attracted to him by a warmth of manner which has every appearance of generosity, she at last becomes interested in him so deeply, that the winning of her perfect trust, her whole heart, is an easy pastime, undertaken at seemingly accidental moments, but in reality pursued as steps in a long and carefully laid plan.

The evening set apart for receiving the "few friends" was a memorable one.

Herr Schwatka, accompanied by Major Kildare, was the first to arrive.

Herr Schwatka was a tall, fair-haired Austrian, of distinguished appearance, and engaging manners. He was a cool-headed, strong-willed materialist, to whom human nature was a congenial study, who never allowed anything to thwart his purpose, and whose spirit of determination dominated most of those with whom he came in contact. To him, women had been but playthings; he laughed at such an idea as the grand pa.s.sion--a figment of the brain for the misleading of boys!

As the two men entered the salon, Kildare, with all his English coolness, started with surprise at the beauty of his surroundings.

Accustomed to the society which his rank as an officer in the British army gave him, he had seen much that was rich and alluring in many countries; but here, in an African desert, many hundred miles from the sea, to find such taste and elegance displayed, was to him surprising.

The crimson and gold hangings reflected from mirrors in the opal light, made a fitting background to a picture, in which stood as its central figure, the Queen of this home, Dainty Laure--a highly gifted woman, possessing that rarest of all gifts, perfect naturalness. Donald, standing by her side, presented the two gentlemen.

Had she been the daughter of a duke, she could not have done the honours with more grace.

The European in Africa has a deep-seated antipathy to the faintest trace of mixed blood. Yet, as Herr Schwatka bowed to Mrs Laure in his elegant way, he was conscious of receiving a pleasant impression entirely new to him.

As for Major Kildare, he was altogether charmed with her, and speedily opened conversation with the common-place question:

"Mrs Laure, how do you amuse yourself in this dusty town of Kimberley?"

"I do not amuse myself, but let what I see amuse me," replied Dainty.

"My horses and my dogs are company; everything that is beautiful pleases me; I make friends of the pleasant people I meet, and avoid the unhappy ones who carry their woes pictured on their faces."

"But what do you do for a confidential friend? Woman must have them, you know, and you hardly find any congenial woman here!"

"You forget Kate Darcy," replies Dainty. "She is a being to admire. I look at no one else when Kate is by."

"Would it be wrong to be glad she is not here then?" said the major, gallantly.

"I think you will be pleased to meet her, you cannot fail to admire her," answered Dainty. "She is not like me."

Herr Schwatka smiled at the last a.s.sertion.

"Do you expect us to admire her when she is not like you?"

Dainty looked at the Austrian with a little deprecatory smile, as she said: "You will admire her for what she is, rather than what she is not."

"It is pleasant to hear a woman praise a woman," said Herr Schwatka.

"All women do it sometimes, for they all must have some intimate whom they can love, caress, and lavish themselves upon."

"Yes," said Dainty, "that may be true, but Kate is not the style of woman you imagine. She is strong and n.o.ble, though gentle withal--wait till you meet her."

Herr Schwatka felt a warm thrill at the enthusiasm and loyalty of the heart that loved its friends so wholly.

"It were well to gain you for a friend," he said.

CHAPTER SIX.

KATE.

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Miss Kate Darcy, and Doctor Fox. They were a very handsome couple, at least so thought Major Kildare, for turning to Mrs Laure he said:

"I believe all you have said of your friend is true, and without the slightest exaggeration."

As the guests continued to arrive, Dainty appeared radiantly happy. At a request for some music, Miss Darcy moved toward the piano.

"What shall I sing for you?"

"Make your own selection and that will be your best," said Dainty, as she reclined in the depths of a chair, prepared to be captivated. Herr Schwatka took a seat at her side. Kate touched the keys caressingly for some minutes, striking a few chords here and there, with a little running accompaniment between, which expressed her indecision of selection, until finally striking a decided chord, she began, in a perfectly modulated voice, to sing that recitative and aria by Handel, commencing "Lascia ch'io pianga," incomparable for opportunity of expression, and for revealing the artistic sense of the singer. Sinking from the triumphant strains into a soft pleading accent, she sang the three stanzas with a pathos that moved her auditors to the depths of their natures.