Lalante looked after them with something of a sigh. They could be happy enough--a small trifle would accomplish that. But she? However cheerful and sanguine and comforting she might be in the presence of her lover, there were times, when alone, that her heart failed her. And now that presence was withdrawn.

Nearly a month had gone by since her father had fixed an open quarrel upon him, which quarrel, for all its tragic potentialities, had found a somewhat tame and commonplace outcome at the time, to all outward seeming, that is. She had, as Wyvern had foreseen, come out to welcome him on that eventful morning; and while obliged to bid him good-bye then, had a.s.sured him openly and unmistakably, and in the presence of her father, that she had no more intention of giving him up than she had of jumping off the nearest _krantz_; a declaration which caused Le Sage to snarl and curse. Then Wyvern, having the good sense to see that no good purpose could be served by further irritating his quondam friend, had bidden her good-bye--not less affectionately than usual we may be sure--and had ridden off.

Since then a frost had set in between Lalante and her father, but it was of his own creation and nursing, for after the first soreness, the girl had shown him the same affection as before, possibly even more; for, strange to say, she was capable of seeing the matter from his point of view; moreover she knew that his own soreness was largely a matter of jealousy in that he was no longer first. But she would not promise not to see Wyvern again, and this rankled in Le Sage's mind more than ever, especially as he felt certain she would find opportunities of seeing him.

As a matter of fact she did so find them, but they were few and far between--and only then, when her father's business necessitated his absence from home. Now of this Le Sage was aware, or at any rate more than suspicious. He was too proud to question Lalante, she having frankly declared that she could not defer to his wishes in the matter.

But his hatred of Wyvern became almost an obsession, dangerous alike to himself and its object. He had one satisfaction, however, out of which he gleaned grim comfort--he held the power now to eject Wyvern from Seven Kloofs within the s.p.a.ce of a few months; in the acquisition of which power Vincent Le Sage had made the first bad bargain he had ever been known to make in his life.

Her small brothers having skipped off down the kloof, clad in their old garments and armed with a catapult apiece--to the latter extent supremely happy, Lalante dropped into a roomy cane chair upon the stoep and let herself go in meditation. Let it not be supposed, however, that hers was any mere contemplative life; far from it. Her strong, capable young nature was eminently cut out for the discharge of everyday duties, and the discharge of them well, too. We have seen how she managed her two small brothers, but her father's comfort came second to nothing, and into all that concerned him, and occupied his daily interest, she entered thoroughly. Whereby it is manifest that from his point of view there was a good deal of excuse to be made for his soreness now. And if, as we have said, she had no "accomplishments," and no high opinion of mere schooling, of which, by the way, she had undergone her full share, she had what was better, tact and the capability of rendering the lives of those belonging to her happy and comfortable.

Leaning back in her chair now, in an att.i.tude of meditative ease, her hands knitted behind the soft ma.s.ses of her sheeny hair, the curving lines of her figure, gowned in cool white, revealed to a sensuous advantage that was wholly unstudied and unconscious, her large grey eyes dilated between their thick lashes, accentuated by the sun-kissed tinge of brown in her clear complexion, the girl made a beautiful picture. In and out beneath the green leaves of the trellised vine which verandahed the stoep, long-waisted hornets winged their way, the winnowing draught of their flight fanning her face; but to such she paid no heed. Her wide gaze was fixed on nothing, but wandered afar--beyond the green and gold of the rolling, _spek-boem_ clad ridges. What was _he_ doing on this heavenly morning? If only he would come over, moved by some afterthought? Why not? Surely a few words need not open so wide a gulf--a few words between men, and one of them angry. But with a sigh she recognised, young as she was, that a few words might open a wider gulf than even a few deeds. If only he would!

There was small chance of it--in fact none. Yet, even then, Lalante could not be p.r.o.nounced unhappy. She had all his love, and he had hers.

No room was there for any shadow of a doubt or misgiving upon that score, and now she, so to say, bathed herself in its consciousness, even though temporarily reft of the presence of the other of the two thus making to themselves a very paradise within the world!

Strange to say, considering her youth, and the circ.u.mstances, after the first natural soreness Lalante had shown no resentment against her father for the part he had borne in the matter. Him she had treated in the same way as ever, indeed in a manner calculated to soothe rather than feed his rancour. On one or two occasions when he had savagely abused the absent one, she had, with great mastery of self-control, refrained from angry retort, and had begged him, as a matter of consideration for her, to refrain from wounding her. "You would not hurt your little Lalante, would you, dear?" she had said with an arm round his shoulder. "Well, when you say these things you hurt me as much as you would if you hit me with a stick or a stone. No--more."

And Le Sage had stared, startled, into the moist eyes, and mumbling something, had left the room--hurriedly. But he never abused Wyvern again, at least not in her presence--nor when there was any possibility of her being within earshot. It is even possible that he might have relented, and extended a helping hand to the unlucky one, or at any rate have tolerated a further effort; but the hard, business instinct of the invariably successful man rose, as a bar--as a very bulkhead of hard oak--between him and his more human, and better inclinations.

The hot, dreamy hours of the forenoon flowed on, and still Lalante sat, to all outward appearance doing nothing, but in reality with racing thoughts. She did not even care to read. You read in order to be taken out of yourself, which was just what she didn't want. Her father was in a small inner room, with a pipe in his mouth, making up--we regret to say, having previously stated that the day was Sunday--certain accounts, for, in addition to his farming ventures, he did a good deal in the stock-jobbing line. And the girl sat there, dreaming on, reconst.i.tuting in her mind a retrospection of all that had pa.s.sed within that year, which was, if there had ever been such a thing, literally and actually _annus amoris_.

She recalled, for instance, their first meeting; how she had come in, hot and dishevelled--or at any rate feeling it--after a long scramble with the two small boys away over the veldt--to find, all unexpectedly, the man of whom she had heard so much as her father's--then--intimate friend. She remembered every line of the expression of the clear-cut, high-bred face, the look of admiration that had momentarily leapt into his eyes directly they rested upon her--hot and dishevelled--in straight, kindly glance; the tall, fine proportions of his frame, the courteous, interested conversation in which he had engaged her. She went over the hiatus of their prompt confidence and growing mutual interest, until--a certain evening, when standing together under the radiant moon amid the fragrant breaths of night--an evening which seemed specially created for such an object--their love had, as it were, _rushed_ together and declared itself as one--yes, as one from the very first. For a brief time life had been a perfectly uninterrupted Paradise, and that to both--and then--and then--trouble, care--black care--had stolen in more and more, but--through it all, love was ever the same, ever undimmed, indeed if possible refined and winnowed by the prospect of adversity. No--a.s.suredly there was no room for unhappiness in Lalante's present any more than in her past. The cloud hung heavy, but it would surely lift. It must. It should.

"Who the devil is this?"

The girl started from her day-dream, and turned quickly. In the doorway behind her stood her father, a pair of binoculars in his hand. Then she looked in the direction in which under the circ.u.mstance she naturally would look.

Away, where the road topped the ridge, two hors.e.m.e.n were riding; and they were approaching the house. They might have been merely pa.s.sers-by certainly, but the girl's true instinct informed her that it was not so, and her heart beats quickened. Yet--why _two_?

"One of 'em's Warren," p.r.o.nounced Le Sage, with the gla.s.ses at his eyes.

"And the other--why, d.a.m.n it! it's--it's that fellow, Wyvern."

This staccato. Lalante, rising, saw that her father's face had paled, and the hands that held the binoculars shook.

"Now, dear," she adjured, putting a hand round his shoulder. "Don't lose yourself, and remember he may have some particular object in wanting to see you. He has never been here since, and it's quite possible that he has. Now do receive him with common civility. You must, you know. You can't be offensive to a man on your own doorstep.

Now can you?"

"Oh, can't I? I seem to remember telling this one never to come near my 'own doorstep' again," snorted Le Sage.

"Never mind. Wait till you hear what he has got to say. You will, won't you."

By this time she had got both arms round his neck, and was holding it tight. He looked into her luminous eyes with his own sombre and angry ones, and somehow the anger seemed to die.

"Very well, dear," he said with an effort, though more gently, and loosening her hold. "I'll wait and see."

Meanwhile the two hors.e.m.e.n were drawing very near.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

FAREWELL!

Warren it was who broke the awkwardness of the meeting.

"Hullo, Le Sage," he sang out as they dismounted. "I lugged this chap over to say good-bye to you. He's just going to clear. I told him he couldn't clear without saying good-bye, just because you had a bit of a growl at each other."

This in his most breezy way. Le Sage put out a hand to Wyvern, though not particularly cordially.

"Oh, you're really going, are you?" he said.

"Yes. Day after to-morrow. My sale comes off next week, but I shan't wait for it."

The air was still and clear, and, upon such, voices travel afar. The above conversation, taking place at the stables, had been heard by Lalante, who therefore felt exceedingly friendly towards Warren, whose words implied that the other would not have come over but for his persuasion. She knew, of course, that Wyvern would not leave without managing a farewell meeting between them--just as she knew what her father did not--that he was on the eve of departure. Yet, here he was, and he should not leave her that day if she could help it. There was parting at the end of it, but all its precious hours in between were theirs.

The anxiety which had at first overclouded her face cleared, as she knew by the conversation of the three men drawing near the house, that her father had kept his word. If his tone was somewhat constrained, why that was only to be expected.

"Well, Miss Lalante," cried Warren, in his breeziest way as she came to meet them. "I hope we haven't invaded you too unexpectedly."

"Not at all," she answered cordially. "It was good of you to come over."

In secret Wyvern somewhat resented this way Warren had of using the girl's own name, even though not omitting the formal prefix. It was quite unnecessary, and formal prefixes are p.r.o.ne to lapse on occasions.

But this little jealous twinge was allayed with her greeting of him--all in the old way. He appreciated, too, Warren's tactful thought in turning Le Sage's attention right in the other direction.

Then the small boys came in, hot and dusty after their ramble, and it behoved Lalante to go and superintend the process of making them presentable for dinner--for which it was nearly time.

In process of that festivity a.s.suredly Wyvern's reputation with the two youngsters as a spinner of "such ripping good yarns" did not suffer as they listened open-mouthed to his narrative of shooting the big leopard in the Third Kloof. The more startling incident of that night he did not narrate for their benefit.

"Man, Mr Wyvern, but I'd like to have been there," said Charlie.

"Do take us with you some night, Mr Wyvern," supplemented Frank.

"There won't be any 'some night' again, Frank. I'm going away."

"What?" cried both youngsters. "No. It's not true."

"But it is," answered Wyvern, with a tinge of sadness. "The day after to-morrow. I've only come to-day to say good-bye."

"But you can't go. Lala, tell him he's not to. He'll stop if you tell him to."

These two youngsters were actually beginning to feel "choky," in proof whereof a plateful apiece of one of their favourite puddings seemed in danger of being left untouched.

The whole-souled affection of the two little boys--Lalante's brothers-- went to Wyvern's heart.

"Never mind, old chappies," he said. "We shall meet again some day, and then you'll be big fellows, and will want to patronise me because I don't bring down a bushbuck ram at four hundred yards when only his head is showing round a _spek-boem_ bush, as you'll do. Here, stop that," he added, as Charlie, the smallest of the pair, began to sniffle ominously, then giving up the effort, broke into a genuine howl. "Men don't cry-- and, this last day we most be all jolly together. See?"

"If you're going in for the Zulu trade, Wyvern, I'm afraid you've hit upon the wrong time," struck in Le Sage. "I hear they're all unsettled in the Zulu country over the return of Cetywayo. There'll be a lively war up there among themselves I'm told."

"Got to chance that, like most things in this sad and weary world."