Renshaw Fanning's Quest Part 15

Breakfast over, the police troopers set out with their prisoners, handcuffed, and extra well secured with reims; for the bush bordering the road was thick, as we have seen, and the men in desperate case. The two wounded ruffians were left behind until such time as they should be in a condition to travel--to recover, as the police sergeant had truly put it, for Jack Ketch; and the dead body of Muntiwa was taken to a distance, and built up in a kind of impromptu morgue of stones to protect it against wild animals and carrion birds. For the district surgeon would have to make a post-mortem, and a report, as by law required; a duty which that functionary might, or might not, hurry himself to fulfil.

We may as well antic.i.p.ate a few months, and finally dismiss the surviving scoundrels from our narrative. The wounded ones being sufficiently convalescent, the whole lot--for the man who escaped at Sunningdale was eventually taken--were put upon their trial for the murder of the Hottentot family. Two were accepted as Queen's evidence, and their testimony, as confirmed by the murdered man's dying deposition, established that Muntiwa and Klaas Baartman, the Bushman Hottentot, were the princ.i.p.al actors in the diabolical business--though there was not much difference in degree between the guilt of any of them, except that Booi, the other Kafir, had endeavoured strenuously to dissuade his fellow-scoundrels from the murder of the woman and children. Accordingly, the two men who had saved their lives by turning Queen's evidence, were put back to take their trial for escaping from durance, and further acts of robbery committed or attempted, including their attack upon Sunningdale; while the remaining four were sentenced to death. Which sentence was carried out in the town of the district wherein the murder had taken place, and the cutthroats were duly hanged--all except the Kafir, Booi, that is, who being recommended to mercy on the consideration above given, his capital sentence was commuted to one of hard labour for life.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

AFTER THE STORM.

Several days went by before things at Sunningdale settled down into their normal calm. The excitement of the night attack had left its mark upon all concerned; moreover, the presence of the two prisoners was productive of an uneasy feeling among the weaker members of the household, for apart from it being a continual reminder of a scene they would fain forget, there was always a haunting fear lest the desperate scoundrels might once more effect their escape. To Violet especially did this apply, and she would wake in the night screaming wildly, and declaring she could see the savage faces of the prisoners glaring in at the window. In fact, for some days she lay in a complete state of nervous prostration.

A policeman had been sent out from Fort Lamport at Renshaw's request, to take charge of the two convicts. Their wounds had been attended to by the district surgeon. Those received by the Bushman were of a shocking nature, and would probably have proved fatal to a white man, while it was found necessary to amputate the Kafir's leg. The rope, however, was not to be cheated of its prey, as we have already shown.

Now Sunningdale, though a charming spot, was a decidedly out-of-the-way one, notwithstanding which, however, as soon as the news of the conflict got wind, it was beset with visitors from far and near, all eager to hear the story at first hand; all fired with curiosity to see two such desperate and now notorious villains as Klaas Baartman and his confederate. We fear the latter emotion was productive of transient advantage to the two scoundrels, in the shape of chunks of tobacco, for apart from an involuntary feeling of compunction for a human creature, however hardened a criminal, whose days are as surely numbered as those of a sheep in a slaughterhouse pen, there was the idea that these two wretches being on show, it was only fair that they should derive some small benefit therefrom. Hence the chunks of tobacco.

There was one to whom this sudden influx of visitors was distasteful in the highest degree. That one was Marian Selwood. To find herself exalted by them into a heroine, to be repeatedly congratulated on her splendid nerve, and complimented on her wonderful pluck and so forth, was absolutely sickening to her. As she remarked bitterly to Renshaw, "What was there to brag about, in that she, securely concealed--lurking ambushed, in fact--did shoot down a wretched man advancing in the open?

It was a repulsive necessity, but not a thing to be proud of, and for her part the sooner she could forget it the better."

To which he had replied that, while agreeing with her on the main principle, the way in which to look at the matter was this. She had been called upon unexpectedly to fill a critical position, one demanding both courage and judgment--and inasmuch as she had displayed both those qualities, and had shown herself abundantly equal to the situation, she had every reason to feel satisfied with herself. Which judicious rea.s.surance, coming from the quarter it did, tended not a little to soothe poor Marian's troubled mind.

For a strange depression had come upon her since the occurrence--a strange reaction in no wise due to the lurid incidents of the tragedy itself. The very firmness and resolution she had displayed were as gall and wormwood to her recollections. What a figure she must have cut! A mere fighting Amazon, a masculine virago, endowed with a modic.u.m of brute courage and healthy nerves! Was it her fault? Thus would she lash her mind into an agony, what time people were showering congratulations and compliments upon her.

Ah, but then the exquisite sweetness of that lonely midnight vigil-- alone with him, in momentary expectation of impending peril, their faculties of vision strained to the uttermost--gazing forth into the sickly moonlight watching for the coming of the murderous foe. A reminiscence which would haunt most women for the rest of their lives, causing them to start appalled from their dreams. Not so this one.

That weird midnight hour, the hush of expectancy, their common peril, her fears on his account; ah, that was something to look back upon, something that should make her heart thrill--but not with terror--for many and many a day.

Yet the iron was in her soul. Nothing could blot out the repellent mental photograph she had taken of herself. It might fade in time, but could never be effaced. Why had she not screamed and fainted like Violet Avory? That, at any rate, was "womanly", she supposed. And what was more repellent than the opposite quality in one of her own s.e.x?

At the thought of Violet she was conscious of a bitter pang. What was the talisman by which the latter was empowered to win all hearts--and then to trample them underfoot in pretty scorn? Well, Violet had every advantage. Her bright, piquant beauty and fascinating manner, her consummate _savoir vivre_, her abundant and perfect taste, her knowledge of society, of England and the Continent--all these things counted, she supposed. Violet was born and bred in England, and had had the advantages of society and travel; whereas she, Marian, had never been outside the Colony, and had spent most of her life on a frontier farm.

Be it remembered, nevertheless, that she who thus secretly ruminated, to her own disparagement, was no mere shy, awkward, diffident school-girl, but a peculiarly winsome, refined, and gracious-mannered woman. And then she would awake to a consciousness that the very fact of indulging in such comparisons between herself and Violet was not a little contemptible. For the broad, reflective mind of Marian Selwood, though possessing its proper share of pride, held no corner wherein might lurk the meaner vice of envy. Whereby she stood confessed an anomaly among her s.e.x.

When Sellon and his host returned from their temporary absence, the former displayed more feeling at the thought of the horrible peril incurred by Violet than those among whom his lines were at present cast would have given him credit for, and in pursuance of this vein he could not sufficiently extol the promptness of resource and cool bravery displayed by Renshaw. And again and again he found himself wondering at the extraordinary coincidence involved in his being brought to this place by Fanning of all men in the world. It was pretty rough on poor Fanning that he should be the means of cutting his own throat. But he had certainly behaved splendidly since, thought Maurice. He had evidently recognised, and that unmistakably, who had the prior claim, and the perfect good taste with which he had withdrawn was worthy of all praise. And in a fit of generous self-complacency the holder of the winning cards felt inclined to blame Violet for having given any encouragement to his now discomfited rival.

What, however, did not occur to him was to blame himself. Maurice Sellon was not built that way. His memory went back to the time of their first meeting--a clear case of love at first sight--to many a tryst since, stolen, and therefore doubly sweet; their awakening to the hopelessness of it all; then their mutual compact to part, to hold no sort of communication by word or pen for six months--which arrangement, though heroic, had broken down ignominiously, as we have seen. He was a great mixture, this unprincipled man of the world. But, with all his faults, his heart was a very soft one, and around it Violet Avory had entwined herself with a firmness, an inextricability, which she could hardly have compa.s.sed with a man of stronger mind and clearer head.

It did not occur to him to blame himself. He held her heart, but dog-in-the-manger like. They could never be anything closer to each other; but, dog-in-the-manger like, he had no idea of surrendering her to one who might freely occupy a closer place. Conscience suggested that had he himself not turned up Renshaw Fanning's suit might in time have prospered. Well, what was that to him? He would give up Violet to no man living; and he felt sore and angry at the bare suggestion sometimes aroused by mind and conscience that she could at any time bring herself or be brought to give him up.

Then his thoughts took a turn; went back to Fanning and his tormenting secret. He remembered the banter that had pa.s.sed between them, when projecting their treasure-seeking expedition. "Perhaps after all our object is the same," he had said. "Perhaps it is," had been the off-hand reply. And it was with a vengeance. He had not intended to be so literal in making the remark! yet he had been startlingly so, though unconsciously. And this suggested another misgiving. What if Fanning should now refuse to share the secret with him--make some excuse--invent some pretext for "climbing down"? He knew that he himself would be more than tempted so to act were the positions reversed. In fact, it was of no use disguising from himself that he would so act. But Fanning was a good fellow--a thoroughly conscientious fellow. He would never go back on his word--would never play him, Maurice, such a shady trick.

Wherein is one of those paradoxes in human nature which will now and again crop up--for no matter to how great an extent hard experience may teach us to put no trust in our fellow-men, do we not every now and again catch ourselves expecting somebody else to act far better under given circ.u.mstances than we should ourselves?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

IN THE LONG KLOOF.

"How am I this morning? Oh yes, it's all very well. But you don't care a straw how I am, or what becomes of me--now!"

Thus Violet Avory, in the softest, most plaintive tone, at the same time lifting her eyelashes in just one quick, reproachful glance. The shaft was effective. It brought down the bird at once. Renshaw stopped.

"I don't think it's quite kind of you to say that, Miss Avory," he answered, a trifle nettled, for all that killing glance; for all that beseeching, cooing tone. "You know you do not believe what you are saying."

She had been leaning over the gate which led out of the flower garden in front of the house. He was pa.s.sing out to set off on his numerous self-imposed duties, having for their object the keeping everything straight during his friend's absence. The morning was young still--not quite ten o'clock. He was hurrying by with a pleasant inquiry as to her well-being, when arrested by her speech as above.

"Thank you," she answered, "I do happen to believe it, though. You never come near me now--in fact, you avoid me like the plague. We have not had one talk together since you came back. However, you don't care--now, as I said before."

To an unprejudiced hearer conversant with the state of affairs, this was pretty thick. For by that time it was manifest to all that the only person who had any chance of a "talk together" with the speaker--as she euphemistically put it--was Sellon; and long before it was to all thus manifest the fact was painfully evident to Renshaw Fanning.

"If it is as you say, I don't think you can blame me," he answered. "I thought my leaving you alone was exactly what you would wish. And that idea you yourself seemed to bear out both by word and act."

"Do you think I have so many--friends, that I can bear to part with one, Renshaw?"

Her tone was soft, pleading--suggestive of a tinge of despair. The velvety eyes seemed on the point of br.i.m.m.i.n.g, as her glance reproachfully met his, and a delicate flush came into her cheeks. She was standing beneath a cactus, whose great prismatic blossoms in the background hung like a shower of crimson stars, one of them just touching her dark hair. To the unprejudiced witness again, conversant with the facts, Violet Avory, standing there amid the sensuous falling of gorgeous blossoms, would have recalled some graceful, purring, treacherous feline, beautiful in its satin-skinned curves, yet withal none the less deadly of intent towards the foolish creatures who should const.i.tute its prey. In this man, however, in spite of the sharp awakening which the last couple of weeks had brought with them, her arts begat no repulsion. There was no breaking away from the old spell so easily. A mist floated before his eyes, and the old tremble came into his voice, as he replied--

"Friends! I should have thought you had plenty. For instance--"

"For instance what?"

"Well, I was going to say, look how anxious we have all been to see you become your old self again; but it struck me that after what you begun by saying I had better not."

"Will you do something if I ask you?" she said suddenly.

"Certainly, if it is anything within my power."

"I want you to take me for a ride--now, this morning. Will you?"

"With pleasure," he answered, brightening up--all prudent resolves scattered to the winds.

"I think it will do me good. Besides--I want to talk to you. Now, I'll go and get ready. But mind--don't let's have any of the others, or it will be no use. Make some excuse about there being no horses or something."

And she started off indoors, while he went round to see about getting the horses up from the large paddock, wherein a certain supply of the n.o.ble animal was always kept for home use.

Violet was not much of a rider; in fact, she was rather timid in the saddle. But she had a good seat for all show purposes, and being one of those girls who do everything gracefully, she looked as well on horseback as anywhere else.

In the eyes of her present escort, this lovely suns.h.i.+ny morning, she looked more than bewitching; which being so, it is not surprising that all his strongly formed and salutary resolutions should rapidly ooze out at his finger-ends. For he had half-unconsciously formed many resolutions, not the least of which was that he would think no more of Violet Avory--at any rate, except as a friend.

Though his strong, self-contained nature had rendered him an easy prey to her wiles--easier because so thorough, once he had succ.u.mbed--yet it supplied a wholesome counterbalance. Which counterbalance lay in an unswerving sense of self-respect.

Try as she would, Violet had not been able to conceal altogether her partiality for Sellon. All her sage precepts to the latter notwithstanding, she had more than once allowed her prudence to lull.

The sharp precocity of the children had discovered their secret in no time, and, disliking her as they did, they had, we may be sure, been at no pains to hold their prying, chattering little tongues. Then the whole thing had become common property to all around.

That she should prefer Sellon seemed to Renshaw quite a natural thing.

In his single-heartedness, his utter freedom from egotism, he was sublimely unconscious of any advantages which he himself might possess over the other. She had rejected him unequivocally, for he had once put his fate to the test. She was therefore perfectly free to show preference for whosoever she pleased. The one consideration which caused him to feel sore at times--and he would not have been human had it been otherwise--was the consciousness that he himself was the agency through which the two had been thrown together. Many a man would have reflected rather bitterly on the strange freak of fortune which had once appointed him the preserver of his successful rival's life. But Renshaw Fanning's nature was too n.o.ble to entertain any such reflection. If it occurred to him, he would cast forth the idea in horror, as something beyond all words contemptible.

This being so, he had made up his mind to accept the inevitable, and had succeeded so well--outwardly, at least--as to give his tormentor some colour for the opening words of our present chapter. But he little knew Violet Avory. That insatiable little heart-breaker fully believed in eating her cake _and_ having it, too. She was not going to let it be said that any man had given her up, least of all this one. The giving up must come from her own side.

"How glum you are, Renshaw," she began, at last. "You have said nothing but 'yes' or 'no' ever since we left the house. And that was at least half an hour ago."

He started guiltily. The use of his Christian name was an artfully directed red-hot shot from her battery. In public it was always "Mr Fanning." And they had not met otherwise than in public since his return.