Renshaw Fanning's Quest Part 32

I think I've said about enough for all present purposes."

"This is an awkward and most unpleasant business," said Selwood.

"Excuse me if I feel bound to refer once more to that letter. The--er-- writer makes reference by name to Miss Avory, who is a guest in my house, and a relation of my wife's--and that, too, in a very extraordinary manner, to put it as mildly as I can."

"My dear fellow, that's a little way of hers. I can a.s.sure you I am most awfully put out that you should have been annoyed about the business. As to the mistake, don't give it another thought."

"How did Mrs--er--the writer--know Miss Avory was here?"

This was a facer--not so much the question as the fact that the knowledge of Violet's whereabouts on the part of the writer implied that he, Sellon, had not met her there at Sunningdale for the first time.

But he hoped the other might not notice this side of it.

"That's beyond me," he answered. "How did she know I was here? For I need hardly tell you we don't correspond every mail exactly. I can only explain it on the score that more people know Tom Fool than T.F. knows; that there are, I suppose, people in this neighbourhood who hail from the old country, or have relations there, and the postage upon gossip is no higher than that upon business."

"You will not mind my saying that it is a pity we did not know you were a married man."

"'Had been,' you should have said, not 'were.' Not but what legally I am still tied up fast enough--chained and bound--which has this advantage, that it keeps a man from all temptation to make a fool of himself a second time in his life. Still, it doesn't count otherwise."

"No, I suppose not," said the other, significantly. "Perhaps it doesn't keep a man from making a fool of other people, though."

"Now, my dear Selwood, what the very deuce are you driving at? For Heaven's sake let us be straight and open with each other."

"Well, I mean this. It's a most unpleasant thing to have to say to any man. But, you see, Miss Avory is our guest, and a relation as well.

You must know as well as I do that your attentions to her were very-- er--marked."

One of those jolly laughs which has so genuine a ring, and which Maurice knew so well when to bring in, greeted this speech.

"Look here, Selwood," he said, "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but the fact is you don't understand women in the least. You are quite on the wrong tack, believe me. Miss Avory doesn't care the ghost of a straw for me, or my 'attentions.' You must remember that we both knew-- er--the same people in England. There, you must fill in the outline. I am not at liberty to say more. But there won't be much time to put the matter to the test, for I've got to leave you again to-morrow."

To Christopher Selwood's honourable mind no doubt suggested itself as to the genuineness of this explanation. There was a frank straightforwardness about it which, with a man of his character, was bound to tell. He felt intensely relieved. But to this feeling there succeeded one of humiliation. Had he not made an inordinate fuss over the concern at the start? Had he not raised a veritable storm in a teapot, and set everybody by the ears for weeks? Had he not in his anxiety to unburden himself abdicated his own mature judgment in favour of the less reliable decision of his wife? In short, had he not made a consummate a.s.s of himself all round? Of course he had.

"By the way, Selwood, there is one thing I want to tell you about now we are together," said Maurice, after a pause. "You and the others were asking about Fanning just now. The fact is, he is not with me, but I couldn't say so without entering into further explanations, which would certainly have alarmed the ladies. We found our 'Valley of the Eye' all right, and a deuce of a job it was. Pheugh! I wouldn't go on that jaunt again for twice the loot. The 'Eye' is a genuine concern, I can tell you--a splendid stone--Fanning has got it. Well, we spent the day picking up a few other stones, and just as we were clearing out we were attacked by a lot of Bushmen or Korannas, or whatever they were, and had to run. By Jove! it was touch and go. They pressed us hard until dark, and then we had to separate--to throw them off the scent, don't you see?

We agreed to meet at his place--that is, if we were to meet anywhere again in this world. Well, I had an awful time of it in those infernal mountains, dodging the n.i.g.g.e.rs. I couldn't show my nose in the daytime, and didn't know the country well enough to make much headway at night, and I nearly starved. It took me more than a week before I could fetch the river, and get through to Fanning's place, and when I got there he hadn't turned up. But I found a letter which had been sent by special messenger, requiring me at Cape Town, sharp, about some infernal but important law business, and I'm on my way there now. I left a note for Fanning, telling him what to do with my share of the swag when it came to dividing, for we hadn't had time to attend to that then, and except a few small stones he has it all on him. It'll be something good, I guess. I dare say he's turned up at home again long before this. He was just laughing in his sleeve at the idea of a few n.i.g.g.e.rs like that thinking to run him to earth. And he seems to know that awful country like ABC. I never saw such a fellow."

"That's bad news, Sellon, right bad news," said the other, shaking his head. "Renshaw has been all his life at that sort of thing, so we must hope he'll turn up all right. But--the pitcher that goes too often to the pump, you know."

"Well, I need hardly say I devoutly hope he will, for if not I shall be the loser to a very large extent, as all the swag is with him. But I somehow feel certain we shall hear from him almost directly."

We may be sure that in narrating his adventures that evening to the household at large Sellon in no wise minimised his experiences of the undertaking, or his own exploits. It is only fair to say that he really had undergone a very hard time before he had succeeded in striking the river at the drift where they had crossed; and, indeed, it was more by good luck than management that he had reached it at all. And during his narrative one listener was noting every word he said, with breathless attention. Whenever he looked up, Marian Selwood's blue eyes were fixed upon his face. He began to feel very uncomfortable beneath that steady searching gaze.

But he felt more so when, his story finished, Marian began to ply him with questions. "A regular cross-examination, confound it!" he thought.

And then, by way of a diversion, he went to fetch the few diamonds which he had kept apart to show as the sole result of the expedition.

These were examined with due interest.

The fact of Sellon arriving alone created no suspicion in the minds of Selwood and his wife, nor yet uneasiness. Was he not a newly imported Briton--and to that extent a greenhorn? If he could find his way out and successfully dodge his pursuers, was it likely that a seasoned adventurer such as Renshaw would fare any worse? So on the latter's account they felt but small anxiety.

Not so Marian, however. A terrible suspicion had taken shape within her mind during Sellon's narrative. "He has murdered him!" was her conclusion. "He has murdered him," she repeated to herself during a night of sleepless agony--such as a strong concentrative nature will sometimes be called upon to undergo. But she kept her suspicions to herself--for the present, at any rate. She was helpless. What could she do? There was nothing to go upon.

Then, on the morrow, Sellon took his departure, as he had announced his intention of doing, and the equanimity with which the circ.u.mstance was regarded by Violet, together with their indifferent demeanour towards each other on the previous evening, completely lulled any suspicions which might have lingered in Christopher Selwood's mind; confirming as it did the other's frank and straightforward explanation.

For his wife had not yet told him all that had transpired between herself and Violet.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

FROM THE DARK RIVER'S BRINK.

It was a weird picture. The grey rocks jutting forth into the evening stillness; the spotted, creeping beast, gathering itself together for its deadly spring; the man, weakened, helpless, lying there at its mercy. Even then, so strange are the fantasies that cross the human brain at the most critical moments--even then, with a kind of grim humour it flashed upon Renshaw Fanning how thoroughly the positions were reversed. Many a time had the spotted pard fallen a victim to his sure aim; now it had devolved upon one of the feline race to give him his death stroke.

With bared fangs and snarling throat, the brute once more gathered itself to spring. But instead of hurling itself upon the prey before it, it uttered a yell of pain and whisking half round seemed to be snapping at its own side. Its tail lashed convulsively, and a frightful roar escaped from its furry chest. There was a faint tw.a.n.ging sound beneath, and again something struck it, this time fair in the eye.

Snarling hideously the great beast reared itself up against the cliff, beating the air wildly with its formidable paws. Then its mighty bulk swayed, toppled over, and fell crashing to the ground beneath.

Thoroughly roused now, Renshaw peered cautiously over the ledge. But what he saw opened his eyes to the fact that this opportune, this unlooked-for deliverance, was more apparent than real. In escaping from one peril he had only fallen into another.

The huge cat was rolling and writhing in the throes of death. Its slayer, an under-sized, shrivelled barbarian, was approaching it cautiously--a naked Koranna, armed with bow and arrows and spear. But cautiously as Renshaw had peeped forth the keen glance of the savage had seen him. Their eyes had met.

He lay still, thinking over this last, this desperate chance. He was unarmed--practically that is--for although he had a knife it was not likely the enemy would come to such close quarters as to admit of its use. The latter with his bow and arrows would have him at the most perfect disadvantage. He could climb up to the ledge and finish him off at his leisure.

For some minutes Renshaw lay still as death. Not a sound broke the silence, not a voice, not a footfall. Perhaps, after all, he had been mistaken, and the Koranna had not seen him. Or, more likely, the savage had started off to call up his companions, who probably were not far distant. Was it worth while utilising his chances so far as to make one more effort to save his life, to strive to gain some other place of concealment before the whole horde came up?

But just then a sound reached his ear--a faint, stealthy rasping. The Koranna was already climbing up to the ledge.

The mysterious shuffling continued. A stone, loosened by the climber, fell clattering down the rocks. Then there was silence once more--and--

A wrinkled, parchment-hued countenance reared itself up, peering round the elbow of the cliff. The yellow eyes stared with a wild beast-like gleam, the black wool and protruding ears looking fiend-like in the falling darkness. His hour had come. Momentarily he expected to receive the fatal shaft.

But it came not. After the head followed the squat, ungainly body, standing upright upon the ledge, the sinewy, ape-like hand grasping its primitive, but fatal, armament--the bow and arrows and the spear. But the bow was not bent, no arrow was fitted to the string.

"_Allamaghtaag! Myn lieve Baas_!" ["Almighty! My dear master!"]

Renshaw sat upright and stared at the speaker, and well he might. Was he dreaming? The old familiar Dutch colloquialism--the voice!

The squalid, forbidding-looking savage advanced, his puckered face transformed with concern. Renshaw stared, and stared again. And then he recognised the familiar, if unprepossessing lineaments of his defaulting retainer--old Dirk.

The old Koranna rushed forward and knelt down at his master's side, pouring forth a voluble torrent of questions in the Boer dialect. How had he come there? Where was he wounded? Who had dared to attack him?

Those _schelm Bosjesmenschen_ [Rascally Bushmen]! He would declare war against the whole race of them. He would shoot them all. And so on, and so on. But amid all his chatter the faithful old fellow, having discovered where the wound was, had promptly ripped off Renshaw's boot.

Yes, there it was--the poisoned puncture of the Bushman arrow--livid and swollen. For a moment Dirk contemplated it. Then he bent down and examined it more attentively, probing it gingerly with his finger. The result seemed to satisfy him.

"Nay, what, Baasje [Literally, 'little master.' A term of endearment], you will not die this time. The thick leather of the boot has taken off nearly all the poison, and all the running you have had since has done the rest. Still, it was a near thing--a near thing. _'Maghtaag_!--if the arrow had pierced you anywhere but through the boot you would have been a dead man long since. Not this time--not this time."

"And the tiger, Dirk?" said Renshaw, with a faint smile. "You are indeed a mighty hunter." For he remembered how often he had chaffed the old Koranna on his much vaunted prowess as a hunter, little thinking in what stead it should eventually stand himself.

"The tiger? Ja Baas. I will just go down and take off his skin before it gets pitch dark. Lie you here and sleep. You are quite safe now, Baas--quite safe. You will not die this time--_'Maghtaag_, no!"

So poor Renshaw sank back in a profound slumber, for he was thoroughly exhausted. And all through the hours of darkness, while the wild denizens of the waste bayed and howled among the grim and lonely mountains, the little weazened old yellow man crouched there watching beside him on that rocky ledge, so faithfully, so lovingly. His comrade--the white man--his friend and equal--had deserted him--had left him alone in that desert waste to die, and this runaway servant of his-- the degraded and heathen savage--clung to him in his extremity, watched by his side ready to defend him if necessary at the cost of his own life.