"You're a hard 'un to serve," grunted Rawson.

"You'll find me a harder one still if you don't watch it. I've no further use for you that I know of, but there's one Jonathan Baldock that certain judicial authorities in this colony might turn to a very unpleasant use--for Jonathan Baldock. So mind your way about, especially where I am concerned."

The cowed look upon the ruffianly countenance gave way to the ferocity of desperation. Warren had goaded this savage beast to a point past endurance. As Fleetwood had said, Bully Rawson's pluck was beyond question, but even it paled before the vision of a beam and a swinging noose. Now, beside himself with fear and rage, he turned on Warren, and reviled him with epithets that we cannot reproduce here. The whole aspect of the man was rather terrific, especially to one who knew his character and repute. But Warren sat calmly through the outburst, turning over a paper here and there.

"Now that you've done you may go--and be hanged," he said at last, when the other had stopped exhausted.

"Yes, but I'll be hanged for something, h.e.l.l take me if I don't," he roared. "I'll send you there first, you blasted, snivelling, white-livered liar."

Warren found himself gazing at the muzzle of a wicked-looking six-shooter, and that in the hand of a desperate and exasperated ruffian. But he did not move, nor did his face change colour in the slightest degree.

"Put up that thing," he said, coolly. "And stop kicking up that infernal row, unless you want everyone else to know what no one knows at present but me."

The hard, cold eyes of the lawyer held the savage, bloodshot ones of the border desperado, and triumphed.

"I'm sorry, Mr Warren," said the latter, shamefacedly, replacing the weapon in his pocket. "My temper's a bit short these days. I sort of forgot myself."

"I should rather think you did. Well, as you have the decency to own it here's something to go on with. Only because you're hard up, mind, not on account of anything you may or may not have done for me," and he opened a drawer, and taking out some notes chucked them across to the other. "Well Jim Bexley, you can go now. Keep me up to where you're to be found in case I want you, and, above all, keep sober. So long."

He banged the handbell and the same clerk came up; and Bully Rawson found himself shown out, while wondering if he had done the right thing, and whether there was anything more to be got out of Warren, also whether the latter had been really as cool as he seemed or whether his coolness was forced "side." As to this Warren was thinking the same thing himself; and came to the conclusion that he had been for one moment in desperate peril. Then he ceased to give the matter another thought.

For some time after his visitor's departure he sat thinking. How would Lalante take the news? This was the worst side of it. Who was to break it to her? Not he himself--with all his nerve and self-possession this was a task from which Warren shrank. Who better qualified for it than her own father. Le Sage must be the man. He would write to Le Sage, giving the facts.

The facts? A sudden and unaccountable misgiving leaped into his mind, striking him as it were, between the eyes. What if Rawson had invented the story, or had simply escaped and left the other two in the lurch?

In that case the chances were ten to one that they turned up again, since the Zulus were only fighting among themselves and not against the whites. How could he have pinned his faith to the word of an utterly irredeemable scoundrel such as Bully Rawson? Thinking now of his former jubilation Warren felt perfectly sick at the thought that it might have been wholly premature. However he would put the matter beyond all doubt. He would wire his agents in Natal to leave no stone unturned; to spare no trouble or expense; to hire a whole army of native spies, if necessary, to collect every sc.r.a.p of information throughout the whole of the disturbed country. This need arouse no curiosity; his friendship with Wyvern would account for it.

What was this thing called love, that it should upset reason, and possess the brain to the exclusion of all other things. In the travail of his soul Warren recognised that he was standing on the brink of a pit. By just the exceptional strength of his mind and will did this obsession become the more dangerous should his new-found hopes melt into air, and, realising this, he realised also that it might soon be time to "set his house in order." For the fate of his former friend he felt no compunction whatever, for "jealousy is cruel as the grave."

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

WARREN'S NEWS.

"But when will the Baas be back, _Klein Missis_? Whenever will the Baas be back?"

"Oh, how I wish I knew, Old Sanna," answered Lalante with a sad smile.

Her smile had been growing rather sad of late, since week had been following upon week, and still bringing no word from the absent one.

Could it mean that he was on his way back? She dared not hope so.

"And these Zulu _menschen, Klein Missis_--are they more _schelm_ than our Kafirs here? No but, that could never be. There's Sixpence, he who _slaag-ed_ the sheep. The Baas ought to have had him flogged or taken to the _tronk_, yet he does neither, but lets him go as if nothing had happened _Oh goieje_!"

"And Sixpence has been a very good boy ever since, Old Sanna."

The old woman grunted, then went on:

"That was the last day you were here, Miss Lalante; with the _Baas_ I mean."

The sadness of the smile deepened, and the wide eyes gazing forth over the panorama of rolling plain and distant rock as seen from the stoep at Seven Kloofs, grew misty. Did she not remember that day, the last perfect one before the final rupture! Now Seven Kloofs was the property of her father, his only bad bargain, as we have said elsewhere. He had wanted to turn off old Sanna, if only that she formed a link between Lalante and the former owner, whose memory he by no means wished kept green; but Lalante had pleaded so hard against this that he had given way, and the old woman remained on in charge of the unoccupied house.

Hither Lalante would sometimes ride over, even as to-day, to dwell, in imagination, among the past again. Now she turned from the stoep and entered the living room. The same, and yet not. Bare walls and floor, and yet how replete with memories. Here was where the dear old untidy table--with its litter heap shoved as much off one end as possible--had stood--there the low chair in _his_ favourite corner--even the mark on the wall, where her portrait had hung, showed plain. All so familiar in the memories it brought that it almost seemed as though his tall figure should suddenly darken the doorway, or that some inexplicable replica of his presence should enter the room. Oh if she could but obtain some news, read but one line that his hand had traced!

It is a truism to insist on the a.s.sociations which this or that particular spot, sometime occupied in common with a presence--gone, it may be, for ever--calls back to the mind, because even the most unimaginative must, in their heart of hearts, own to a consciousness of having at sometime in their lives gone through this feeling. Lalante of course, was not unimaginative, and the a.s.sociations which every stick and stone of the place conjured up were overwhelming in their sense of utter desolation. It seemed that every word that had pa.s.sed between them sounded again in her ears, this jest here and on such an occasion, that light banter or grave discussion there, each and all at such a time and on such a spot. Within doors, outside on the stoep, or in the open veldt it was all the same, that awful, intense craving for the presence which was no longer there.

The patter of running feet and the light laughter of child voices--then her two small brothers came round from the back of the house.

"Time to go back Lala, hey? Oh!"

There was that in their sister's look which turned both of them suddenly grave. A small hand--hot and of course not over clean--stole into each of Lalante's, and two untidy heads nestled against her, one on each side. These two had long since gained an inkling of the real state of affairs. Now they meant to be consolatory, but of course didn't know what to say, so they said nothing.

"You darlings, yes it is," she answered. "Go and tell Sixpence to bring round the horses."

The former unreliable herd had been given the post of general out-door caretaker of the place--owing again to Lalante's pleading. Now he appeared, leading the three horses, a grin of cordiality making a white stripe across his broad face. He, again launched forth into inquiry as to when the _Baas_ would return.

"_Ou_! but he hoped it would be soon," he went on, when he got his answer. "That was a _Baas_ to serve, none like him in the land. He was great, he was a chief indeed. He was his--Sixpence's--father, and his heart was sore until his father's presence was over him once more."

Lalante smiled, still sadly as she gave the Kafir the length of tobacco which she had brought over for him. Even this raw savage had an affection for the absent one, who had forgiven him what time he had incurred the most severe penalties.

During the homeward ride she was still rather silent. The two small boys, Charlie and Frank, dropped behind and kept up their own chatter, but even it was rather subdued, rather laboured. The sun flamed down in all the glory of the cloudless afternoon. Two little steinbok rushed, startled, from the roadside, and scampering a couple of score yards halted to gaze at them curiously. It brought back just such another incident when he had been with her, and jumping off, had turned over one of them with a neat rifle shot. The shrill grating cackle of a troop of wild guinea-fowl rose from a clump of p.r.i.c.kly pear down towards the river, and, shading her eyes, she could see the long lines of dust rising against the sun as the wary birds ran. Here too, he had bagged quite a goodly number while she waited for him, and under exactly the same circ.u.mstances. Every sight and sound of the sunlit veldt, recalled him with a vividness more than ordinary to-day, which is dealing in superlatives. Yet--why?

There was the spot on which they had made their last farewell on that memorable evening. Lalante had pa.s.sed over it several times since, but now, to-day, such an overpowering feeling came upon her, as nearly impelled her there and then to dismount and kiss the very dust his feet had pressed. Yet--why?

"Man--Frank," exclaimed Charlie, as they were descending the last slope opposite the homestead. "There's somebody with father. Wonder who it is."

Lalante started, and strained her eyes. The distance was over great for identification purposes, but whoever it was she was pretty sure who it wasn't.

"Why it's Mr Warren," went on the first speaker. "_Ja_--but I'm glad.

He's no end of a jolly chap."

Again Lalante's heart tightened, as she remembered a similar eulogium, more than once uttered, with regard to another. Otherwise, as to Warren she was rather glad of his presence than not. He was good company and would somehow draw her on to talk of Wyvern, whose praises he would deftly sound; moreover he never lost a chance of trying to soften her father's resentment against the absent one. Then, too, there was his daring feat in the flooded Kunaga on that dreadful afternoon. But, for any other consideration, if he had only known it, Warren was nowhere.

There was only one in the world for her; one who was totally unlike any other she had ever seen or could form any possible idea of. Ah, if it were only that one! Yet, on the whole, she was glad to see Warren. He might even have brought her some news, he who seemed in touch with everybody.

Le Sage and his guest were standing at the gate.

"Take round the horses, kiddies," said the former, shortly, as they dismounted. "And--don't come back here until you're sent for. D'you hear?"

The small boys obeyed without question. There was that in their father's tone which precluded anything of the kind.

"What is it?" Lalante managed to get out, in a catching sort of gasp, her great eyes fixed upon their faces, her own cold and white. The two men looked at each other.

"Oh, you tell her, Le Sage, for G.o.d's sake," muttered Warren. "I can't." And turning, he went indoors.

"What is it, father?" repeated the girl, the lividness of her face truly awful as she pressed her hands convulsively on her heaving heart.

"Don't beat about the bush. Tell me."

"For Heaven's sake, child, keep up," he answered jerkily. "It's about Wyvern. Disturbances in Zululand. He's--"

"Dead?"