"Walter," began Mrs Brathwaite, when the voices outside were out of earshot, "I'm greatly afraid Arthur has lost his heart in that quarter."

"Bah!" replied her husband, with a good-natured laugh; "not he.

Arthur's made of tougher stuff than that. And," he added, "you women think of nothing but match-making."

"But I tell you he has," persisted she, ignoring the latter insinuation.

"Now look here. For the last fortnight he has been a changed man. I can see it, if you can't. Why, he hardly speaks to any one else when Lilian is there. Every moment that he is not at work he is in the house, or in the garden, or wherever she is. For some days he has been looking pale and worn, and no wonder, for he doesn't eat enough to support life in a child of three years old. And he has become, for him, quite captious and irritable. Now," she concluded, triumphantly, "do you mean to tell me all this is only my imagination?"

"Well, perhaps you are right," answered the old settler, reflectively.

"But somehow I've almost thought, of late, he was rather fond of Ethel."

"That's because you're not a woman," rejoined his wife. "Now I never thought so. And I've noticed what I've been telling you ever since the night of the dance, that is, ever since the day after Lilian's arrival.

You'll see I'm right."

"Not sure I don't hope you are. It would be a good thing for both of them. She's one of the sweetest girls I ever saw, as well as the prettiest. And to be thrown upon the world like that, gaining her livelihood by hammering a lot of dirty, uproarious brats into shape-- it's abominable; and if it is as you say I heartily congratulate Arthur."

Mrs Brathwaite laughed rather dubiously. "Not so fast," she said, "I'm by no means sure that Arthur will find it all plain sailing. Mark my words, that girl has a history, and she isn't to be won by any chance comer. Ah, well; we shall see."

Meanwhile the objects of their discussion are wandering on beneath the orange trees, even as they had done barely a fortnight ago for the first time.

"You are highly entertaining, I must say," remarked Lilian, amusedly, when they had strolled some hundred yards further in absolute silence.

"I suppose I ought to offer you the regulation penny."

"You must make a much higher bid, then. I was thinking of what you have just been singing."

"Really now? I should never have thought you were so easily impressed."

"I don't know. There is a world of pathos in that composition. Those few lines contain the story of two people who might have been happy.

Why weren't they? Because it pleased a beneficent Providence-- beneficent, mark you--to decree otherwise, and so Death put in his oar.

Now if all hadn't been going well with them, it isn't likely that Providence would have been so accommodating."

There is a brusque harshness in his tones which causes his listener to glance up at him in surprise and dismay, and she can see that his features are haggard. She is even alarmed, for she remembers hearing vaguely that her companion's life had been a stirring and chequered one.

Has she now unwittingly rasped some hidden but unforgotten chord? It must be so, and she feels sorely troubled.

They are standing on the brink of the little rock-bound pool where they lingered and talked on the night of the dance. Almost mechanically they have struck out the same path and wandered down it, but this time no deadly foe dogs their footsteps. They are alone; alone in the dim hush of the African night. Overhead the dark vault is bespangled with its myriads of golden eyes, which are reflected in the still waters of the pool, and the Southern Cross flames from a starry zone. Now and then a large insect of the locust species sends forth a weird, tw.a.n.ging note from far down the kloof, but no sign of life is there among the _spekboem_ sprays, which sleep around them as still as if cut out of steel.

He picks up a pebble and jerks it into the pool. It strikes the surface with a dull splashless thud, and sinks. A night-jar darts from beneath one of the fern-fringed rocks and skims across the water, uttering a whirring note of alarm.

"Hadn't we better be going back?" hazards Lilian, at last. Anxious to withdraw from the dangerous topic, she takes refuge in a commonplace.

"It was rather late when we came out."

Claverton is standing half turned away from her--his face working curiously as he looks down into the water. For a minute he makes no answer; then he faces round upon her, and his voice, hoa.r.s.e and thick, can scarcely make its way through his labouring throat.

"Lilian, Lilian--my darling--my sweet--my own sweetest love. For G.o.d's sake tell me what I would die at this moment to know?"

He has taken both her hands in his and is gazing hungrily down into the lovely eyes. She gives a slight start of unfeigned surprise, and he can see the sweet face pale in the starlight. Trying to speak firm she gently repeats her former question: "Hadn't we better be going back?"

Can he read his fate in her eyes? Do those gentle tones echo his sentence? It seems so.

"No," he replies, with all the vehemence of a foregone cause--the pa.s.sion of shattered hope. "No--not until you have heard everything."

His arms are around her now, and she cannot stir from the spot if she would, but she does not try. "Listen," he goes on, speaking in a low, quick, eager voice. "Since the very first day I saw you I have loved you as no woman was ever yet loved. From the first minute, from the first glance I caught of you that day you flashed upon me like an angel of light. Stop. It is true, so help me G.o.d, every word of it,"--for she started as if in surprise. "From the very first moment. Couldn't you see it? Couldn't you even see it that first day?"

"No--I could not," is her earnest answer. "I vow to you I could not. I had no idea of--of anything of the kind. I would have gone away from here at once--anywhere--sooner than have wrecked your peace! And now this is what I have done. Heaven knows I never intended it!"

The sweet eyes are br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears as she stands with bent head before him, and Claverton is convulsed with a wild, helpless yearning.

The first thought is to comfort her.

"Don't I know that? Heavens! The intention is a mere superfluity. One has only to see you to love you. Can the sun help shining?"

She looks up at him. "Then you believe me? It would be dreadful to me--the thought that you could imagine I had trifled with you."

"I could not think so. It would be an impossibility," replies he. For the moment he almost forgets the death blow which she has dealt to his own hopes, in his great eagerness to set her at ease with herself, to rea.s.sure her. Forgets? No. Rather he rises above himself.

"Listen, darling. Every day since you came here I have only seemed to live when with you. I have never been a fraction of a moment away from you if I could possibly have been near you. Night after night through I have lain awake, restlessly longing for morning that I might look upon you again, and then when I have left you to go about the day's work, how I have treasured up the last glance of those dear eyes, the last ring of that sweet voice, till the very air seemed all sunshine and music.

Lilian, darling, I never can live again without you, and--by G.o.d, I never will."

He pauses; his voice failing him. The expression of his face as he hangs upon her reply is terrible to behold. It might be compared to that worn by a convicted murderer when the return of the jury to give their verdict is announced. And this is the man who, at a comparatively early age, has looked upon many a harrowing scene of human suffering unmoved, who has thoroughly steeled himself against all the tenderer feelings of nature, ever presenting a cold philosophical front to the fortunes, good or ill, of himself or of his neighbours. Who would know him standing there, ghastly white, the whole of his being shaken to the very core? Yet but a few days have wrought this change.

She makes no answer at first, for she is silently weeping. Then with an effort she looks at him, and her face wears an expression of unutterable sadness.

"Hush! You don't know what you are saying. You must never talk to me like this again. Try and forget that you have done so. Remember what a short time you have known me. How can you know anything of me in a fortnight?"

His answer is a harsh, jarring laugh. "Forget what I have been saying?

Only a fortnight? Is everything to be subject to the unalterable rule of thumb? Only a fortnight! My love--my life; do you remember the first time we were here together? I could have told you even then, what I am telling you now. Do you remember telling me about yourself; how you were all alone in the world--you? Only say the word and your life shall be without a care--all brightness and sunshine, and such love.

Listen, my own! I, too, am alone in the world. I have never found any one to love--it has all been treasured up--kept for you. Now, take it.

Lilian, Lilian, it cannot be that--you--will not?"

His voice sinks to a fierce, pa.s.sionate whisper, and he holds her to him as if he would never let her go. Above, in the sky, a l.u.s.trous meteor gleams--and then fades. A flight of plover, rising from the ground, circles in the gloom, with soft and ghostly whistle, and all is still, save for the beating of two hearts. Around float the fragrant breaths of the rich, balmy night.

"I can give you--no--comfort," she replies, dropping out her words as if with an effort. "Oh, why did you ever tell me this? Do you think it is nothing to me to see you made wretched for my sake? I tell you it is heart-breaking--utterly heart-breaking. Yet it cannot be. You must never, never talk to me like that again. And you have given me all the best of yourself," she exclaims, the very depth of sadness in her tone, "and I--can give you--nothing!"

"Nothing?" he echoes, mechanically, looking down into the white, sad face, out of which every trace of its usual calm serenity has disappeared, leaving a weary, hopeless expression that is infinitely touching. "Ah, I can see that your life has not been without its sore troubles. It is not for me to pry into them."

"I can give you this amount of comfort, if it be any comfort," she says, throwing back her head with a quick movement and fixing her eyes on his.

"I look back upon the hours which I have spent in your society as an unmixed pleasure, and I look forward to many more, selfish as I am in doing so. I formed my opinion of you the very first few moments we were together--and our first meeting was a queer one, was it not?" with a sad little smile at the recollection. "That opinion is unchanged, except, perhaps, for the better. I cannot bring myself to forego your society, though it is only fair to warn you that I can give you no hope; and you must never ask me to. Are the conditions too hard?"

"No, they are not."

Her words had a soothing effect upon her listener, and he began to see a gleam of light. He was not indifferent to her as it was, and, given the opportunity, he would make himself absolutely indispensable. Moreover, it was just possible that he had been premature in his declaration.

Yes, more time and opportunity; that was what he wanted--and he would succeed. Determination, which had never yet failed him, should effect that--determination, combined with patience. He would not even ask her her reasons for refusing him now. No; he would trust her absolutely and wholly, and take not only her but her cares, whatever they might be.

And at the prospect of a contest, a strife with circ.u.mstances, though the odds were dead against him, his spirits revived.

"Promise me one thing," he said. "You will not avoid me in any way?"

She hesitated.